


One Dream May Hide Another

by Neurotoxia



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Hot Springs & Onsen, Incest, M/M, Multi, Presents, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In honour of his coronation, Thranduil offers Bard a most unusual gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Dream May Hide Another

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Evandar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/gifts).



> The usual thanks goes to [crookedspoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/profile), not only for putting up with me and the horrible first drafts I throw at them, but also for making the fic safe for human consumption and for providing the title!
> 
> My first and foremost source are the movies and various wikis since I've yet to find the endurance to make it through the entire book canon. ~~Mr Tolkien's writing style and I haven't got the best track record~~ I've played fast and loose with some aspects – I hope the purists will forgive me.

“Master Dragonslayer, are you hiding from your own coronation?” a smooth, deep voice asks.

Startled, Bard turns around to see the Elvenking glide onto the balcony, heavy black-and-silver robes trailing after him, a fur-lined sash thrown around his shoulders. A silver crown encircles his head, reminding Bard of the icicles hanging from the rails. In his left, he is holding a goblet of steaming hot mead. If one were to draw a picture to define the word ‘regal’ one would paint a portrait of the King of Mirkwood. Even in his finery, Bard feels like a mutt in the presence of Thranduil. The effect he has on Bard does not lessen, no matter how often he’s been exposed to Thranduil. By the gods, the elf is beautiful – granted, the elves all are, but their king outshines them all. Bard isn’t even ashamed to admit it anymore. To himself, that is. He’s hardly going around swooning over the beauty of King Thranduil to his people.

“The ordeal is exhaustive, my Lord,” Bard responds with an uncomfortable smile. “I wished for a moment of peace and quiet.”

“Quiet is hard to achieve with a hoard of uncultured dwarves in the room, I agree.”

“They are not as bad as you make them out to be, Lord Thranduil,” Bard chides, but there’s no heat in it. Actually, he finds Thranduil’s childish distaste of the dwarves amusing, unless he’s attempting to have Thranduil and Dain agree to trade contracts. At least their taunts and insults are creative.

“They are worse,” Thranduil says and Bard senses the Elvenking would scrunch up his nose if it weren’t so beneath him. 

Bard carries no desire to argue in favour of the dwarves any further than a token protest, so he snorts and takes a sip from his own goblet. He wanted to be alone for a moment after all the upheaval of the coronation (who knew coronations were so lengthy and exhausting?), but he doesn’t mind having Thranduil for company. The Elvenking doesn’t bore him with incessant chatter and even though he seems to look down on everyone, Bard likes to think that Thranduil holds him in some esteem.

“I’d like for you to visit my quarters later. There is a gift in honour of your coronation I wish to present you with.”

“But haven’t you already?” Bard asks, recalling the magnificent elvish bow King Thranduil’s son Legolas awarded to him upon the arrival of the elven delegation. It’s elegant, light, and deadly. Bard has been vibrating with anticipation to take it out to the range.

“There is a personal gift I deemed unsuitable for the public eye. I should call it a symbol for a new, strong alliance between Dale and the Woodland Realm.” The King has a mischievous glint in his eyes as he speaks the words. 

It is a cryptic description at best, but Lord Thranduil hovers back inside again before Bard can ask any more questions about this supposedly private gift. They have become friends and allies since the Battle, Bard supposes. At least he likes to think of the Elvenking as a friend, he doesn’t truly know if the feeling is mutual. He also likes to think of Thranduil as potentially more than that, but this particular notion, he likes to keep private.

Bard follows the king’s retreating back with his eyes, sipping from his cup to give himself something to do. Another figure steps into the corridor, the shadows from the torches lined along the brick wall obscuring his face, but there is little doubt it’s Legolas who has waited for his father to come back inside. Legolas has returned from his travels to attend Bard’s coronation and there is a fiercer air to him than before, Bard thinks. He’s not quite as intimidating as his father, but no less pleasing to the eye.

Heavens, the mead must be addling Bard’s mind. Here he is, undressing a pair of elves with his eyes and not even attempting to conceal his leering.

Is Legolas looking at him?

* * *

Several hours later, after nearly everybody has retired for the night, Bard knocks on the door of Girion’s old rooms. He’s given the king the best quarters in the castle (yet, he’s sure they cannot begin to compare to even the Woodland Halls’ cupboards): a large fire is burning in the grate, heavy, midnight-blue curtains are drawn across the windows and walls to stave off the winter’s icy bite. This year’s winter is truly harsh, they were fortunate to have been able to finish enough rooms for everyone in Dale to have a roof over their head.

In these quarters, he finds a twofold surprise. The Woodland Prince is present, sitting on the large four-poster bed made from the finest oak Dale had to offer with his feet crossed at his ankles in front of him. He is wearing only a simple, loosely bound off-white tunic, leaving half of his chest visible. His hair is free of braids, strands falling into Legolas’ face. With his hair open and flowing, he resembles his father more than Bard has ever seen him. He swallows, willing the fire in his loins to die. The staring is hardly appropriate. It appears that Legolas is visiting his father before retiring, catching up with each other. The Prince has travelled the North for the last year, this is the first time he’s returned.

“I apologise if I’m intruding, my lord. I can come back la–“

“No, stay,” the King’s voice carries over from the armchair by the fire. “You have come just at the right time.”

King Thranduil too has changed his attire: gone are the crown and the brocade robes, replaced by a much lighter, simpler gown of golden silk. The material is so fine, it seems to ripple like water with every movement. Bard is not savvy about the conduct among kings, but he is fairly certain one normally did not receive guests in a dressing gown, regardless of how fine the silk is.

It does not help that the two of them have the appearance of great cats, ready to pounce.

“Come again?”

He must have misunderstood the King’s words. There is no chance that he said–

“I think you understood me, Lord Bard,” Thranduil responds, an indulgent smile on his lips as if he foresaw the reaction. It is entirely possible he did.

“You are offering,” Bard repeats, glancing at Legolas on the bed, “your _son_?”

“It is a much more fitting offering for a king than the cheap wenches who’ve been preying on you all night, is it not?”

If Bard had the presence of mind, he would have objected to the Elvenking calling the women of Dale such names, but rational thought eludes him. He wonders if it is an elaborate joke, if the king is merely jesting and pulling a prank with the help of his son. Except it would be unlike the King of Mirkwood to do such things. Thranduil rarely cracks a smile that isn’t cynical and aimed to belittle.

Legolas is unfazed by the discussion, by his father offering him up like a breeder would a horse. How can he be this calm?

“Do you always go around offering your son to new lords for their pleasure?”

“As if I would bestow such honours on a dimwitted creature like Dain Ironfoot or the ilk that oversee a village and call themselves lords for it.” The Elvenking looks disgusted with the mere ssuggestion that someone like Dain might lay a finger on Legolas.

“Most of my kingdom is made of ruins, my lord.”

“Do not sell yourself short. You’ve slain a dragon, and fought in the Battle of the Five Armies by my side. Surely you know I think of you higher than a mere ruler of the barely restored ruins of Dale. Your ancestors once were great lords, you will do them justice.”

“Perhaps in a decade or so.”

“A decade is nothing,” Thranduil snorts.

“To elves, perhaps,” Bard retorts and Thranduil waves Bard’s quip away like a fly.

“You are changing the subject, Lord of Dale,” Thranduil says with a sly smile.

“Don’t you think it dangerous making an offer such as that?” Bard asks with a smile of his own. “I could be taking offence at your implications that I would be interested in a male elf.”

The Elvenking doesn’t take the bait. “A lifespan of millennia grands you above all a better perception for the matters in life that are rightfully significant and the true desires of the heart. Your interest is not limited to the female form, Dragonslayer.”

Bard shifts uncomfortably, worried that his private interests were on blatant display for everyone to see. The race of men did not approve of one man desiring another.

“Do not fret; your people are oblivious. Men hardly see anything of what is transpiring right before their eyes. I daresay you have indulged in dalliances with men in the past, but probably not since before you married.”

“How could you know such a thing?” Bard blurts, remembering fumbled encounters behind stables and boatsheds, often drunk and sometimes not. He hasn’t touched anyone intimately since his wife passed, too preoccupied with keeping the children and himself fed. 

“It was but a guess, which you confirmed for me,” the Elvenking said with a smirk. “You needn’t fear me losing any respect for you, King Bard. Elves have long since realised that gender is of little importance in love or lust.”

Terrific. Except that Bard doesn’t live among elves, he lives among men and has to deal with their prejudices. 

“However, if you do not find me appealing, Lord Bard...” Legolas chimes in from his spot on the sheets and furs and inclines his head.

“No, I do, but–“ Bard interjects, then realises he just confessed an attraction to the Prince of the Woodland Realm. He feels the blood rush to his ears and Lord Thranduil and his son smirk. Manipulative pack, both of them. They have been hoping to catch him on the backfoot. 

“I…” He feels he ought to protest. No matter how tempting they look in their sparse clothing, this is bordering on madness. Bedding the Prince of Mirkwood, in the presence of the King. Little does he know of diplomacy, but it seems more than inappropriate to sleep with one’s allies. And that’s not even considering the moral implications.

“Your Gods did not strike you down by lightning the first time you laid with a man,” Thranduil says. “I doubt they will decide to do so now.”

Be that as it may, the last time Bard enjoyed the company of a man, it was only a single man and it did not involve any blood relations. This is an entirely new moral dilemma.

“Is it…?” Bard starts, but doesn’t know how to phrase the question without sounding like a country yokel. Which he is, if he’s being frank, but there is no need for him to parade his limited scope to these two ancient creatures.

“Is it what, Dragonslayer?”

“Is it…common for your kind to lie with one’s kin?”

Thranduil’s eyebrows rise, impressed with Bard’s boldness. “It’s not,” he says and chooses to refill his goblet, not disclosing anything else on the matter. Legolas does not offer any answers either. Bard decides he won’t prod this particular hornets’ nest.

After a long draught from the cup, Thranduil rises from his chair, crossing the room to tower over Bard.

“There’s no need for you to decide tonight, Dragonslayer,” the king’s voice drops to an even lower pitch as he traces his fingers along Bard’s jawline. Bard can smell the wine on him and the smoke from the fires and tobacco at the feast. “I only ask you give it your careful consideration.”

The latter sentence is whispered into Bard’s ear, the Elvenking’s lips nary a hair’s breadth from Bard’s face. A pleasant shudder trails down Bard’s spine. He feels bereft when the king takes a step back, reaching for his goblet of wine. The ripple of the gown as Thranduil moves his limbs mesmerises Bard so much, he doesn’t even notice Legolas moving from the bed until he grasps Bard’s chin, turning his face away from Thranduil. It’s the first time he touches Bard and the man feels the kindling warmth in his loins grow hotter still.

“Do not take too long. I will not stay much longer before I ride North again.”

“Sleep on it,” Thranduil suggests and Bard only nods.

He will have to sleep on it more than once, certainly.

* * *

The following three days of festivities blur together into a mass of frustration that seems to befall Bard at every turn. 

He’s willing to swear the King of the Woodland Realm brought his finest garments simply to turn Bard’s head (and parade his riches before Dain Ironfoot). Even Legolas, whom Bard is used to see dressed in simple, green elvish tunics marches the halls of Dale in silken robes not quite as ostentatious as his father’s, but still arresting enough to give Bard pause.

He’s also willing to swear he catches Thranduil staring at him over the rim of his wine goblet at every meal. 

He’s furthermore willing to swear that whenever he sees Thranduil and Legolas standing next to each other, they’re standing just a touch closer than what is considered appropriate. And unless his eyes have started betraying him entirely, Bard even sees the king threading a hand into Legolas’ hair when no one else is around.

And to make it all worse, Bard finds both of them in his personal space more often that what he would consider coincidental. Either he is a victim of his own paranoia or they are trying to wear him down.

Whichever it is, it is working.

* * *

Of course Bard caves. He already knew it would happen when he exited Thranduil’s chambers that night, leaving Thranduil and Legolas to do Arda knows what. The first clue to his intrigue should have been the amount of time he’s spent thinking about the deeds the elves committed behind closed doors. The second –and most damning– clue should have been the arousal he felt from imagining said deeds in vivid detail. 

The patronising smirk Thranduil leaves Dale with days later is a testament to the Elvenking’s powers of observation. He knows Bard has already capitulated, knows that soon he would find a messenger in Mirkwood’s halls, requesting a private audience with the King and Prince of the Woodland Realm. 

A week later, two elven guards accompany Bard through the confusing and dangerous paths of Mirkwood, assuring safe passage for the King of Dale and friend of the Woodland elves. Bard has stopped considering the state of his pride, letting himself be manipulated by father and son in such a manner. His nights have been haunted by long blonde tresses and piercing blue eyes.

In the halls of the King, two attendants stand in wait for Bard, taking his horse, his coat and his sparse luggage and instruct him to follow the servant. His Majesty and his son are already awaiting him. Refreshments and a light meal will be ready in the King’s quarters, surely he’s hungry from the long trip. Bard is indeed hungry, but he isn’t sure if he will be able to eat with the summersaults his stomach is performing. What has possessed him to agree to this? He’d been hoping to be given some time to collect himself before being paraded before the king, but to no avail, it seems. The rules of hospitality probably don’t apply when you’re about to do what Bard is about to do. Gods.

The servant announces Bard’s arrival, then stands aside to let Bard pass into the room. The reception area is already larger than the entirety of Bard’s lodgings. The ceilings are high, turning the room into something akin to a hall. Oil lamps suspended from the ceiling and a fire in the grate suffuse their surroundings in a soft golden glow. To the right, an archway leads to what looks like a substantial private library. 

The set of doors to his left open with barely a whisper, revealing Legolas in a robe of laurel green.

“Bard, welcome!” he smiles. “I’m delighted you accepted our invitation.”

Bard is merely capable of nodding, as his tongue appears to be glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Through here,” Legolas says, holding the door for Bard. “I’m sure the ride was exhausting. You will need to replenish your energy.”

Bard manages an affirmative sound and Legolas’ smile grows broader. He leads him through the king’s bed chamber dominated by a bed large enough to hold four adults. The decorations of the rosegold pillowcases and duvet covers are opulent: tiny floral stitchings in a deep copper thread that must have taken a seamstress forever. It is evident in every luxurious item in the room that Thranduil does not think of modesty as a virtue. The splendor suits him in a way it never would Bard. And Legolas possesses the great gift of navigating both opulence and understatement with grace. 

Today, he looks indeed like royalty. 

He follows Legolas through another room down a set of stairs, temperature rising noticeably, prickling on his skin. So does the growing humidity. 

“My father’s private hot springs,” Legolas explains and draws aside a set of heavy, verdigris curtains. “They are very relaxing and will aid your fatigue and aches.”

The hot springs look like a grotto with its stone wall and ceilings. Natural light filters through from overhead, aided by lamps on the walls. Several ornate pillars tower over Bard, giving the room an appearance of additional height. Curls of steam rise from the surface of the pool in the centre of the room and a number of oversized cushions lie along its bank.

“Ah, Bard,” he hears from the end of the pool and only now realises that the king is sitting in the spring, water rising up to his chest and lapping at his pectorals. His arms are spread along the edge, and yet, even in the absence of his gowns and jewels, and lounging in a hot spring, the Elvenking looks like he’s sitting on a throne.

“Lord Thranduil,” Bard replies and clears his throat. Sweat is forming under the collar of his tunic and he’s certain it is not only the heat.

“I think in our situation, it seems silly to continue using titles, don’t you think, _Lord of Dale?_ ”

Well, yes, it does. But Bard would have rather cut off a finger before he addressed the elf in such an intimate manner without previous invitation.They might be in similar positions now, but Bard still feels like he is no match for this centuries-old creature with an ancient realm and tens of thousands of warriors to command. Bard has no more than ten guardsmen and half a ruin to his name.

“Yes,” Bard finally agrees when he notices that he hasn’t answered yet.

“Undress and join me then, _Bard_ ,” Thranduil smirks and picks a grape from a golden bowl nearby. Where does Thranduil receive fresh grapes from in the dead of the winter?

“Erm…”

“Surely you need some relaxation after your travels,” Thranduil says and pops the grape into his mouth. “Not to mention a cleanse.”

At that, Bard raises an eyebrow.

“Please, I am acquainted with the hygiene of men and it leaves much to be desired,” Thranduil sighs. 

“Yes, our priorities are strange – such as not freezing or starving to death during winter,” Bard quips. “But bathhouses and golden fruit bowls follow right after.”

Bard is indeed still getting used to taking a bath almost every day – and a nearly warm one at that. In Laketown, he used to wash himself in a basin of cold water and took a dive into the lake when he was due a more thorough cleanse. He shouldn’t confess that to Thranduil; it would only prove him right.

Thranduil arches an eyebrow, it might indicate amusement, it might also indicate a desire to cut off the impertinent human’s head. Perhaps the two correlate. At least Legolas looks amused.

Bard fiddles with the laces of his tunic, nervous because of the two pairs of eyes staring at him. He remembers the small scars littering his arms from his work as a bargeman and there are the ones on his back when the Master’s henchmen had become overzealous with the whip. At least from his breast up, Thranduil doesn’t seem to have any scars, no nicks marring his skin. 

“My, are you self-conscious, Dragonslayer?” There might be a teasing note in Thranduil’s voice.

“I thought we’d done away with the titles?”

“Consider it a moniker,” Thranduil says. “Surely, you have undressed in front of others before?”

“The context was a little different,” Bard mutters under his breath, but he’s certain the elves have heard him anyway. He goes back to fiddling with the laces to hide his pink face. It stands to reason that Thranduil has no qualms about being in the nude in front of others, there must be an attendant dressing him considering the complicated robes he usually wears. Or perhaps it’s an elf trait. Despite shipping their barrels for years, Bard knows little about elvish culture.

“Legolas, will you pour Bard wine?” Thranduil addresses his son. “I think he could use it to take the edge off.”

Bard huffs and pulls his clothes off faster while Legolas walks over to a table to the side to get wine anyway. When he carries back a tray holding three cups, Bard has finally stripped down to his smallclothes, competitive spirit awoken. At least he’s now wearing less than Legolas. Just as he finalises the thought, Legolas puts down the tray and drops his light robe, revealing that he’s wearing nothing underneath.

Bard can’t help but stare. Legolas is of lither stature than his father, less bulk and narrower shoulders, but Bard will be damned if he isn’t beautiful. The pale skin appears to be just as unmarred as his father’s and save for the ones on his head, Bard can’t see a single hair on him. It makes his skin look so smooth, Bard has to suppress the urge to reach out and run his palm over Legolas’ chest. All the while, he’s firmly not looking at the young man’s cock ( _young_ …Legolas is centuries, if not millennia older than Bard). He doesn’t want to embarrass himself yet. Not that watching Legolas’ rear as he climbs into the spring helps much.

“Now, Bard,” Thranduil says. “You’ve seen my son undress, it seems only fair you allow him the same.” He cradles the goblet in his left while his other hand combs through Legolas’ golden hair.

Bard swallows past the lump in his throat, telling himself to calm down and pull himself up. He undertook the journey knowing what would lie in wait (or rather, he had an idea), desiring it to happen even. He faced a _dragon_. He can get into a hot spring with the Elvenking and his son. 

With a steadying breath, Bard drops the last bit of cloth protecting his virtue.

“Curious,” Bard hears Legolas say, sounding surprised. Bard isn’t sure ‘curious’ is what one longs to hear in this situation.

“Quite,” Thranduil agrees.

“What exactly is curious?” Bard has to ask. From what he’s seen of Legolas, the bodies of elves and men appear to have much in common.

“I wasn’t aware the race of men grew so much hair on their bodies,” Legolas explains and Bard arches an eyebrow. Up to now, he hasn’t considered himself to be particularly hairy. His back is free of it and what grows on his chest and stomach is neither dense nor extensive.

“It’s almost dwarvish,” Thranduil adds and Bard hopes that’s a teasing note in his voice.

“Excuse me?” Bard scoffs and Thranduil smirks.

“Rest assured, Dragonslayer, you are far more appealing than any dwarf,” Thranduil says.

“I should hope so.”

With that, Bard dips his foot into the pool and decides he should have gotten in sooner. The water is warmer than anything Bard has ever known and it feels wonderful.

“Oh, that is good,” he groans and follows Thranduil’s motion to come closer.

Once he is within reach, Legolas takes to study the hair on Bard’s thighs while Thranduil, no one for modesty, has no qualms trailing the tips of his fingers through Bard’s pubic hair – all of Bard’s hopes not to give away his arousal crumbling under their touch.

Thranduil hums. “It’s not unattractive,” he says. “Though I am curious what it would feel like without the hair.” With these last words, he closes his hand around Bard’s prick and pulls for one slow, glorious stroke that weakens Bard’s knees before he lets go again.

“Perhaps a shave next time,” Legolas says, fingers still playing with the fine hairs on Bard’s thigh.

Bard sees too many stars to question the use of ‘next time.’ Neither does he question Legolas’ intent of shaving.

“Sit down, have your wine and let Legolas wash you,” Thranduil commands and this time, Bard isn’t even disgrruntled that he’s being ordered around by the Elvenking.

Not that he there is much to complain about orders that demand he drink wine and let someone else wash him.

* * *

Bard forgot how quickly Dorwinion wine goes to his head, even if he’s only had it back at his coronation not long ago. He considers himself a man who’s able to hold his liquor but the ale you got in Laketown doesn’t begin to compare to the wines the elves consume. It seems they aren’t as susceptible to drink, considering that he’s seen Thranduil drinks goblets full of wine without swaying. Legolas seems to have inherited his father’s constitution – the wine he’s had in the bath did not even make him tipsy.

The impression of having his mind wrapped in cotton wool aside, he _is_ more relaxed. The wine took the edge off, the bath heated him up and loosened his tense muscles, and Legolas washing his hair left it soft and smooth. It hasn’t quite dried yet, but the soap he’s got at home is helplessly inferior to whatever it was that Legolas rubbed into his scalp. By the heavens, he’s even wearing a robe as soft as a peach’s skin. 

At some point during their time in the bath, a servant must have brought a meal as Bard discovers a mouthwatering display of breads, cheeses and fruit (some of which Bard isn’t even familiar with). No meats, and Bard can’t recall ever having seen one of the elves eat it, but with a variety such as this one, it doesn’t matter. If elves always have this much to choose from, it’s no surprise they forgo the meat. He discovers deep red cherries in a silver bowl and snatches one; he hasn’t had any since his childhood before the Master started to hoard all the nice produce. For good measure, he takes a strawberry, too.

“If you wish to eat first…” Legolas offers, but Bard shakes his head. Not that he knows anything of proper conduct (if there is any such thing) in these situations, but something tells him that interrupting to stuff himself is poor manners.

“Later,” Bard says as he swallows the sweet, tangy flesh of the cherry. “The cherries just looked too tempting. I haven’t laid eyes on one in years.”

Father and son look amused for a second and Bard uses the time to pop the strawberry into his mouth. He’s barely got time to chew before Legolas is on him, pressing his lips to Bard’s. The element of surprise is what works in Legolas’ favour, for Bard is too surprised not to respond. And my, the boy is good at it.

“Hm, you’re right,” Legolas hums when he pulls back. “The cherries and strawberries are excellent.” The smirk that appears on his lips looks resembles his father’s so much, it’s almost unnerving.

Legolas glances into Thranduil’s direction, who steps forward, gold robe rippling around him. It’s the same he’s worn on the evening of Bard’s coronation when he first made his offer. Thranduil grips Bard’s chin and pulls him forward, pressing a much shorter kiss to Bard’s lips. Bard has to strain up a bit, because unlike Legolas, Thranduil is taller than him.

“Excellent indeed,” Thranduil agrees with a smirk of his own. “I may have to compliment Elrond on the quality of his harvest this time.”

Normally, Bard’s curiosity would have prompted him to ask about Elrond – it’s a name he’s heard a few times since the Battle of the Five Armies. But right now, he’s much too dazed by the fact that’s he’s kissed both elves he’s been lusting after. Thranduil has already migrated to the low bed, resting with his back against the carved headboard. Similar to his throne, antlers appear to have grown from the wood, framing Thranduil’s back. The robe has come apart just enough to reveal more of his chest and one leg from calf to thigh, pale skin shimmering golden in the light from the fire in the hearth. Bard’s mouth is watering again.

“Finish up, Dragonslayer,” Legolas breathes into his ear and pulls on the knot holding Bard’s robe closed.

Bard drains the last of his wine, hoping it may soothe his nerves once and for all. Then, Legolas takes the goblet away, putting it down on a table before he pushes the red silk from Bard’s shoulders, leaving him naked once again. Thanks to the wine and the time in the bath, Bard isn’t as nervous about it anymore. 

Legolas sheds his own robe and takes Bard by the hand, pulling him towards the bed. Bard tends to forget how strong elves are, the force behind Legolas’ grip is considerable, as is the shove he receives that lands him on the soft mattress. Thranduil hauls him farther up the bed by the arm and Bard throws him a glance – he’s still wondering about the extent of Thranduil’s participation. The Elvenking hasn’t been clear on the topic, whether he’s just there to watch or if he’s going to join in.

The thought flees as soon as he finds himself straddled by Legolas. Bard gasps at the sudden contact; he’s been aroused since he first entered the bath and now he can feel the swell of Legolas’ arse pressing lightly against his member. What is he to do now? Wouldn’t they need something to ease the way?

“Allow me,” Thranduil speaks up and procures a vial from the folds of his robe. “A gift for the King of Dale should be adequately prepared.” 

Bard watches Thranduil lather his fingers in oil scented with sandalwood and rose. He’s hypnotised by the anticipation of what is about to unfold before his eyes. Unable to tear his gaze away, he watches Thranduil’s glistening fingers disappear from his sight behind Legolas’ back, mouth suddenly gone dry.

Legolas gasps and rocks forward, fingers tightening in Bard’s pectorals. Bard feels Thranduil’s fingers ghosting over Bard’s abdomen as he works them into Legolas and he tries not to think too much about what it means that the fact that Thranduil and Legolas are father and son does not put him off in the slightest. On the contrary, the forbidden nature of it only seems to fuel his arousal.

For the next, seemingly endless minutes, the room is filled with low, breathy sounds spilling from Legolas’ mouth. Thranduil uses his free hand to trace Legolas’ ear and lips with his fingertips, so light it looks almost reverent. Legolas’ cheeks are dusted with a light blush.

“I trust you are not waiting for an invitation to touch however you please,” Thranduil suddenly addresses Bard and arches an eyebrow. Amused? Bard thinks he’s coming to grips with the expressions hiding behind Thranduil’s eyebrow movements, at least enough to make an educated guess.

“I…” Bard rasps, laying one hesitant hand on Legolas’ thigh close to his groin. Further explanation is cut off by a slick hand curling around his prick, stroking with determination. Apparently, Thranduil has shifted from preparing Legolas to preparing Bard.

Bard drops his head back into the pillow, unable to contain a satisfied groan. Thranduil’s and Legolas’ display left him with an erection as hard as rock. But much like in the bath, it is over far too soon and Thranduil’s fingers disappear again. Bard feels like he might burst a vessel from all the spikes in his heart rate alone.

Thranduil bows down low so his lips almost graze the shell of Bard’s ear and his long hair falls like a curtain around them.

“Do not fret, Bard,” he murmurs. “You will find release soon enough. Perhaps more than once, if your human constitution is up to the task.”

The low, breathy tone is nearly enough to make Bard’s blood pressure rise yet again, but he can’t help flashing Thranduil a cocky smile.

“You might be surprised at the human constitution.”

Thranduil seems pleased that Bard has found the courage to use his sharp tongue. Not that Bard has ever used it much on Thranduil (who in their right mind would?) but he appeared to enjoy witnessing Bard using it on others. Dwarves in particular.

“I accept your challenge,” Thranduil says in a wry tone.

“By all means,” Bard laughs. “Hit me with your best shot.”

Legolas does the hitting.

The little verbal sparring match with Thranduil somewhat distracted him from the naked Legolas in his lap. Legolas took that as a challenge as well, it appears, because he sunk down on Bard’s cock without a warning.

“Oh–“ Bard gasps and tightens his fingers around Legolas’ hips lest he starts moving. If he did, it might be over far too soon.

“You will find that Legolas is my very best weapon,” Thranduil quips and tucks a strand of hair back behind Legolas’ pointed ear. Then he says something in Elvish that makes a conspiratorial smile appear on Legolas’ face. 

Two elves smiling like that should worry him, and it would, if he weren’t too busy trying not to come. It’s been longer than he cares to remember since he’s not merely had his own hand for company. Thranduil has moved behind Legolas, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder.

“Godspeed, Bard,” Thranduil smirks.

And heavens, does he need it, because Legolas starts moving at a languid rhythm that has to have been designed to drive Bard mad. The roll of his hips is fluent, but still forceful, aided by Thranduil whose hands have settled on Legolas’ hips right above Bard’s own. Already, a shiver is crawling up and down his spine, the slick push and pull of his prick through the heat of Legolas’ body intensifying it.

Legolas’ palms are pressing into Bard’s chest for leverage, driving himself up and down with abandon. Thranduil’s additional weight limits Bard’s ability to meet Legolas’ thrusts, but it hardly matters since Legolas doesn’t seem to need any help. Bard isn’t even sure he could contribute anything because every slick glide is nearly making him see stars. Even with Thranduil’s more than thorough preparation, it’s still incredibly tight. 

He closes his eyes and savours the wet sounds of skin on skin, the feel of Legolas’ heated body under his fingertips and the building pleasure prickling at the base of his spine. His and Legolas’ breathy moans and gasps fill the room, now and again interwoven with Thranduil’s deep voice. Half the things he says Bard doesn’t understand but if he’s uttering as many filthy encouragements in Elvish as he does in Westeron, Bard is blissful in his ignorance – even if it’s just because he wants to be spared from coming too soon. 

Thranduil’s voice isn’t helping.

After a while, Legolas movements become faster and harder, as if he’s trying to take more pleasure from Bard’s body, and Bard thinks he shouldn’t have to do it all on his own when there are two more people in the room. He removes one hand from Legolas’ hip and takes the other’s hard prick, stroking lightly. Legolas’ mewls and his rhythm falters before Thranduil helps him find it again, guiding him with a firm grip on his hips.

Bard watches with rapt attention as Thranduil pulls Legolas’ hair to one side and kisses the exposed neck, his fingers drawing idle circles around Legolas’ nipples. Legolas whines, Bard’s hands stroking his cock and his father’s ministrations on his neck seeming to pull him in two directions at once. His cheeks are flushed a deep cherry blossom pink and the blush is travelling down his neck and chest except where Thranduil is biting and sucking marks into the sensitive skin. The display is decadent and Bard could happily have gotten off just by watching the two of them together.

This passion is so different from the restraint Bard has come to associate with elves. But he figures that if one has eternity to fill, one has enough time to develop carnal passion in bed. More than once, he finds Thranduil’s heated gaze on himself, as if Thranduil too wishes to get to explore Bard more closely. Bard wouldn’t object to the idea.

Moments later, he finds Thranduil’s fingers on himself, tracing the point where he’s joined with Legolas. Both of them reward Thranduil with sighs of pleasures for touching the already sensitive areas. The hand travels, fondling Bard’s bollocks and pressing the pleasurable spot behind them. His touch against Bard’s hole is so light it’s barely there, but it’s all it takes after reining himself in for half the night. His abdominal muscles tighten and the intense heat collects in his stomach, spreading to his chest and spine.

The orgasm hits Bard with all the force of a punch in the gut, except that instead of pain, the tingling pleasure races into his fingertips and toes, making him shiver and arch and moan. His hand falls away from Legolas’ cock and fists into the sheet instead, riding out the waves of lust that have crashed over him.

Meanwhile, Thranduil hasn’t wasted any time and taken over bringing his son to climax, long fingers stroking the erection at a near punishing pace while Legolas continues to rock on Bard’s flagging prick, taking whatever it can still give. It doesn’t take long before he freezes and his head falls back on Thranduil’s shoulder, words spilling from his mouth that might either be Sindarin, gibberish or both. Legolas’s semen spurts onto Bard’s stomach and coats Thranduil’s fingers before he lets go of his son who sinks forward. He rolls off to the side so as not to land on Bard with his full weight. Legolas’ head is resting on Bard’s outstretched arm while both of them still shiver with the recent pleasure, panting in unison. Spots of indigo and emerald dance before Bard’s eyes while he looks at Thranduil who’s gazing at them like a predator. His robe has loosened enough to reveal a portion of his toned chest. The fire in Thranduil’s eyes combined with the hint of disarray is enough to captivate Bard once more. He has to have the Elvenking in one way or another before the night is out. 

“How can we bring you pleasure, Thranduil?” Bard rasps while the other reaches for a cloth on the low table next to the bed to clean his hand. “After you’ve so generously provided ours.”

Thranduil smiles in self-satisfaction and dips a second cloth into the pitcher of water on the table. He cleans Bard’s stomach and groin in silence, making Bard shiver anew with his light touch in the overstimulated areas. The heat coils in his gut again, wishing for more of Thranduil’s touch, no matter how spent he felt just a moment ago. As if he’s sensing Bard’s insatiable thoughts, Thranduil looks him in the eye and smirks.

“If you’re amenable, Dragonslayer, I will have you,” Thranduil says and starts to shed his robe with all the assurance of a man who already knows the answer.

Bard stares at Thranduil in his naked glory – his chiseled physique, the silken hair framing his broad chest, and the neverending legs Bard’s eyes drink in until they settle on the arousal standing tall and proud against Thranduil’s lower abdomen. Even Legolas has awakened from his doze to let his gaze dart between Bard and Thranduil, new intrigue sparking in his eyes. Until now, it hasn’t occurred to Bard to submit to Thranduil this night, he hasn’t thought about whether he desires it. But the answer appears in his mind, as clearly as the night sky is visible through the windows.

Eagerly, his legs fall open.

“ _Yes._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from the Poem [One Train My Hide Another](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/248448) by Kenneth Koch. 
> 
> English isn't my first language and this hasn't undergone a native speaker check (yet), so I do apologise for any wonky grammar you've encountered. As usual, comments are love!


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